My little chicken

"How long do you wanna be loved? / Is forever enough? Is forever enough?

I had such a nice day with Henry today. It was the right decision for me, even though it hurts sometimes, to find another baby to love. I thought that it might be like pouring salt into a wound that was finally starting to close up and heal, and I won't deny that sometimes I feel sad. But the boundaries of my heart just open up again, and it makes me feel whole, unbroken, strong...and I look forward to the few times a week when it is my job to watch and love a sweet little baby, my chicken.

I love how his little face lights up or spreads into this goofy, shy grin when I walk in the door or when I come to get him after a nap. I love his sleepy red cheeks and glassy eyes ("one of those sweet, sleepy moods that save the human race from extinction). I love his little language of grunts and beeps and twitters that he sings to me. I love his daily tragedies (who knew that the removal of a contraband pencil from a chubby hand could elicit such heart-felt sorrow...). I love the abandon with which he smears his lunch across his face with pure, unadulterated joy. I love his bursts of hysterical laughter brought on by God knows what. I love the way he touches my face, tenderly at first and then more enthusiastically, probing my eye sockets and pulling my earlobes until I have to take his hand and show him how to be "gentle."

I love rocking him to sleep. He always puts his little face in the crook of my neck and twists my shirt in his left hand and gently pats my shoulder with the other. And I sing to him, mostly the old gospel or folk and bluegrass ballads that I know so well. Henry's fool-proof song is "Shady Grove" which I usually end with, as his little body grows soft and warm and heavy and the patting and twisting stops. And beneath him, I also feel so relaxed and sleepy and so wonderfully content. My family calls me the "baby-whisperer" because I've never met a baby or toddler than I couldn't put to sleep, even the most reluctant sleepers. I don't exactly know how I do it. I just do. It is almost like meditation for me. My mind has to be, in that moment, untroubled, nearly blank. I have to focus on the rhythm, the music, the feel of him in my arms. In comparison, Henry is easy, so I don't even have to try.

And for the first time in my experience as a self-proclaimed baby whisperer, I love the transition from arms to crib, the time when the connection is broken. Each time, I lower him down, he smiles, barely awake, just about enough to break your heart, before I release him and watch him curl up like a rolypoly into his lovies. Usually, he hums for a few seconds before falling still. In that moment, I know perfect peace. Sometimes I don't pay attention to that moment. Today I did.